


Bloody Genius

by Slenderlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Everyone is pretty cool with it, John is just John, M/M, Sherlock is a vampire, Vamplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slenderlock/pseuds/Slenderlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone asked me to write vamplock: "AU where humans in need of money sell their blood to vampires. Sherlock is so focused on a case he loses track of his feeding schedule and ends up in a donor bedsit as John's client. He's so busy he offers extra money to drink straight from John's neck, instead of waiting for him to extract the blood in the usual procedure. Eventually they arrange constant meetings and Sherlock starts bringing him groceries and stuff, because "he needs quality blood". He always pays to drink from John's neck."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody Genius

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah I wrote like 6k of this prompt, forgot it for a week, posted it on tumblr, forgot it again for another few months, and then decided to post it up here on AO3. I kind of want to revise it, but I know that's not going to happen so eh here you go

"You sure you're all right, mate?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock tugged the scarf from around his neck so it wouldn't brush the body as he crouched. "My mind is operating perfectly normally."

Lestrade, who was stood by the edge of the crime scene, scoffed. "And when's the last time you got a good drink, eh? You're paler than a-"

"If you dare compare my skin color to that of a supernatural creature that doesn't exist, I will have no choice but to flay you over the crime scene and claim that the killer reappeared to claim another victim," Sherlock spat, not turning around to face Lestrade. He pulled out the flip-up magnifying glass and began inspecting the body closer.

"Oh, yeah. And this coming from a vampire?" Lestrade grinned. He was probably one of the only people in London who would dare joke around casually with a vampire, particularly about vampirism itself.

A slim collection of vampires resided in England, taking up approximately a fourth or so the population. While not hostile towards each other, humans and vampires didn't casually talk, unless a previous relationship had been formed. Lestrade, who had found Sherlock as a shivering wisp of a vampire, living off charity blood donors, and helped sort him out, had more than earned the right to chastise him.

"Seriously, Sherlock. I don't think you're operating on all four cylinders right now."

"Transport doesn't matter, Lestrade," Sherlock snapped. "This is the seventh body they've found. Killoran's going to keep on his murder spree unless we find him."

"Unless you find him, you mean." Lestrade crossed his arms. "And I'm not sure you're gonna be able to do that while you're like this."

"I'm fine, for god's sake." Sherlock stood rapidly, scarf in one hand, magnifying glass in the other. He blinked, and the crime scene swam out of focus, Lestrade's worried face vanished into a blur of vague skin-color. Another blink and the scene was gone altogether.

o0O0o

"Nice of you to join the land of the living. Well. Sort of."

Sherlock squinted, momentarily disoriented. He saw honey colored hair tied up in a loose ponytail. With another blink, the woman's eyes swam into focus. They reminded him of being lost in the woods, unable to recognize anything but the bark of the trees.

"Hospital?" he asked.

"Close enough." The woman set down her clipboard and moved to the side of his bed. "You collapsed a few hours ago and were brought here. You're still very weak. We've found a compatible blood donor for you and we're in the process of filtering-"

"Now." Sherlock attempted to sit up, but his head didn't seem to allow it, and so he collapsed back on the bed.

"Excuse me?" the woman asked, pausing in her explanation.

"I need to drink now. I have to- I'm busy. I'll pay extra, whatever it takes. The filtering and rerouting process will take hours, I need to go now. Let me drink directly."

The woman looked a little nervous- after all, the tradition of vampires drinking directly from donors (or, if you went far back enough in history, victims) had long since passed, having been replaced with a more time consuming, but sanitary, system. It was rarely heard of for a vampire to feed directly from a human, unless you counted the cheap romance novels that sometimes included soppy scenes between vampires and their human partners, sharing the ultimate trust in a sickeningly sweetly written feeding. It was generally accepted by the public that such an act would be unfeasible.

"Sir, I don't think-"

"I'll pay whatever is necessary. Just let me feed now."

"I'll- I'll see what I can do," the woman stammered, bustling out of the room.

Not ten minutes later, she returned with a man- human, blood donor, just out of the military, psychosomatic limp, so he has a therapist, looking for money to get by. He slipped off his coat- shot in the shoulder, healed but still gives him trouble- and walked over to the side of the bed. Sherlock managed to sit up.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked, voice still weak. The man blinked.

"E-excuse me?"

"Go on. Which is it?"

"Um. Afghanistan."

Sherlock nodded to himself. "May I borrow your phone?" Lestrade wouldn't be expecting him for another few hours. He needed the man to be ready when he left the clinic, waiting for him to return.

"My phone?" the man repeated, clearly thrown by the question.

"Yes, your phone. I need to send a text. Mine doesn't get reception here. I've tried it before."

"Oh. Um, sure." The man fished through the discarded coat and pulled out his mobile. Wordlessly, he handed it over.

Alcoholic brother, then.

Sherlock sent off a quick text and handed back the mobile. "Right. Come here. The angle will be difficult for the first few seconds, but I believe even with your shoulder injury and your psychosomatic limp you'll be able to handle it."

The man, looking startled at the deductions, nodded before awkwardly kneeling by the side of the bed. Sherlock turned onto his side and placed both hands on the man's neck, brushing away his hair before leaning down and sinking his fangs in. The man gave a small jolt before forcing himself to calm down and relax.

The taste was absolutely exquisite. Within seconds Sherlock was able to sit up properly. The thirst was always in him, no matter if he'd drunk that week or not. He'd had complete confidence in his ability to stop when necessary, so as not to completely drain this man of his blood system, but now he was finding it difficult to stop. Eventually, he tore himself away, forcibly pushing himself off using the man's shoulders. The man, letting out a sort of grunt that Sherlock couldn't quite identify, slumped forward onto his hands and knees.

"Sir?" the woman prompted, looking between Sherlock and the man.

"Not now." Sherlock flung himself out of the hospital bed- they hadn't even bothered to get him out of his old clothes, how was that for equal treatment- and headed towards the door, not looking back.

o0O0o

Sherlock found Killoran in nearly forty minutes, holed up in a wine cellar. His mind was working at twice the normal speed, his limbs were on fire. It was like being high, but without the aftertaste of chemicals. It was perfect.

Sherlock burst back into the clinic, eyes wild, and slammed his hands onto the front desk. The man sitting behind it, who was filing his nails absently, looked up.

"You here to see a donor?" he asked, nonplussed by Sherlock's appearence.

"I was here earlier today," Sherlock said, trying to keep his fingers from trembling. He pictured the woman in his mind, her hair, her appearence, her nametag. "A woman- mid thirties, has been divorced, currently engaged. First name Lynn, works as a-"

"Lynn? Yeah, she works here. What do you need her for?" the man interrupted, setting down his file and looking at the computer monitor. "She's busy right now, but if you want to schedule an appointment, I can set something up later this evening."

"No, not her. The donor. You keep records on all your appointments, yes? Who was the donor?"

"Uh, let me check." The man- Sherlock noticed his name was Charles- scrolled down a list, eyes scanning the different names. "Watson, John. You know him or something?"

"Get me his contact information," Sherlock demanded.

"We aren't allowed to pass out personal information from our donors, especially not in the case of vampires."

"Oh, for god's sake." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to stalk him and drain him in the middle of the night, what do you think I am? Some kind of brainless animal?"

"I can arrange for him to be your donor at your next appointment, if you want to talk to him again," the man offered, shrugging.

"Fine. Yes. Do that. Three weeks from now. Tell him I'll pay him extra again this time."

"Name?"

"Holmes."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes." Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently. The man clicked a few times, typed a few words.

"Right, you're good to go. We'll send you a reminder email the day before."

"Yes, I'm aware of how this clinic works." Sherlock huffed, before sweeping out of the room and back onto the street.

o0O0o

"Oh," was the first thing that greeted Sherlock as he stepped into the clinic's donor room. The same man from before was sitting on the bed, looking mildly surprised. "It's you again. You ran off so quickly last time, did everything go all right?"

"What?" Sherlock asked. "Oh, yes. Caught a serial killer."

The man blinked, clearly surprised, before smiling at him. "How did you know all that about me?" he asked. "I don't even know your name and you know more about me than most of my girlfriends."

"Simple observational skills." Sherlock walked into the room and closed the door behind them, ensuring they were alone. Unlike most humans, who would have flinched away at the mention of being alone in a room with a vampire, this man seemed nonplussed.

"Well, it was amazing, whatever it was."

Oh. That was... unusual.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, after a beat. "People don't usually say that."

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off, vamp."

The man winced, then extended out a hand. "I'm John. John Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock took John's hand and they shook.

"So, you want to, um. Do the same thing?" John tilted his head, indicating the two pinpricks that were still visible on the side of his neck.

"Yes. I found the last experience to be quite... satisfying. You don't object?"

"No, I don't." John seemed... well, John didn't seem to mind any of it.

"Oh. Good." Sherlock smiled. "Shall we?"

"Er, yes. Be my guest." John turned so the same side of his neck was exposed, and Sherlock in turn stepped over and bent down to bite.

It was, if possible, better than before. Sweet, yet savory; thick, yet smooth; rich, yet he felt as if he could drink it for hours without being completely satisfied. He let out a small moan as he fed, unaware of having done so.

It went on for what seemed like hours. Sherlock lost track of the passing seconds, all systems of his brain devoted to this, devoted to feeding. When at last he registered the fact that he was not intaking blood from a prepared bag and that there was nothing stopping him from drinking this man dry, he pulled away, taking care to slide his tongue over the wound he'd left. It had never been scientifically proven, but most people agreed that vampire saliva prevented unwanted scarring.

"No, don't- you don't have to stop," John panted, leaning back on his hands for support.

It was an odd role reversal from the first time they'd met, wherin Sherock had been the one lying on the cot, barely able to form a sentence, and John had been the one standing over him.

"Yes, I do," he said, licking a stray droplet of blood from the side of his lips. _As much as I'd like to keep going_.

"Why?"

"Because-" Because if I don't stop now, I'll bleed you dry? Because you taste better than anyone I've ever drunk from before? "Because I've already overstayed my welcome. You've lost enough blood as it is."

"I don' mind." John shook his head, and then winced. "You c'n keep going if you like."

Sherlock found that he would like, very much. The prospect of drinking John entirely, until there was nothing left to be drunk, was rapidly filling his brain. But he shook his head firmly.

"I appreciate your... altruism," Sherlock said, "but I've taken quite enough."

"Not trying to be altruistic," John said, giggling a little. "Were you born in 1895?"

Sherlock huffed. "Nonetheless, I really do think-"

"I liked it."

Sherlock stopped short, looking down at John, who was now lying down on the cot, eyes closed.

"You what?"

"Liked it. It was nice."

Feeding, on a basic level, was a one sided event. When portrayed in media (and textbooks written in earlier times) the vampire, usually portrayed as a parasite, would find a human and latch on. It would then drain it of whatever blood it contained. Once done, the vampire would abandon the human (dead or not) and move on to its next victim, until it was sated. Humans weren't supposed to 'like' the process.

"You... liked it."

"Mmm."

Sherlock said nothing to that. It seemed that they both benifitted from his feeding. Sherlock was given the opportunity to feast on the most delicious blood he'd ever tasted, and John was given whatever pleasure- was that even the right word?- he took from being a donor. And, of course, was being paid.

"Then I'll see you in three weeks?" Sherlock prompted.

John cracked an eye open, looking at Sherlock. He seemed a little disappointed, and Sherlock couldn't help but share the feeling. "Yeah, three weeks," he mumbled, and closed his eyes again.

Sherlock hit the lightswitch on his way out, leaving John to sleep.

o0O0o

"What the hell?"

Sherlock, stood on John's doorstep, began to have second thoughts about coming here almost immediately. Negative reaction- possibly just shock related, but more than likely related to a negative impulse. Raised tone, face holding traces of disgust.

"John," Sherlock greeted.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock?" John asked, still blocking his doorway. "We're meeting at the clinic in two hours."

"I cancelled the appointment."

John's face fell ever so slightly. "Oh," he said. "Right. Um. Hold on, why are you here?"

"I thought we could do without the hospital ambiance," Sherlock said. Negative reaction to possibility of terminated meetings, good.

"Hold on, you mean you want to feed off me... in my flat?" John clarified. Sherlock nodded. "But... but the clinic pays me, Sherlock. To be a donor. It's pretty much my only cource of income."

"I'll pay you," Sherlock said, shrugging. "More than the clinic, if you need an extra incentive."

"Oh."

They looked at each other for a few moments before John stood aside, face breaking out into a grin.

"Yeah, that seems... that seems good."

'Good'. It was a start.

"So, should we just... do it here?" John asked, as Sherlock walked past him through the doorway.

"Certainly not. Somewhere you will be comfortable, as well as a place you can recuperate if the need arises." He didn't mention the unspoken fact that he wasn't sure he could control himself enough to stop when the time came. He'd done it twice before, but in a setting such as this there was no one to stop him if John's vitals plummeted.

"I trust you," John said, looking up at him.

Sherlock smiled.

They eventually settled on John's bed, which was the most comfortable place in the tiny apartment John was living in. As he shrugged off his coat by the front door, Sherlock could see most of his belonings. A bed, a desk with a laptop on top of it, a dresser with a few things, and a chair. To the left there was a tiny bathroom, likely with nothing more than a shower and a toilet. It was becoming increasingly obvious why John was earning money as a blood donor.

They sat side by side, legs hanging over the side of what Sherlock was defining as a futon on wooden slats. With a hand, John pushed the stray hairs away from his neck and tilted his head over. Sherlock covered John's hand with his own, placing the other on John's shoulder. He lowered his lips over John's neck and bit down, fangs piercing the lightly scarred skin.

As he began to drink, he felt it again. That rush of- god, he didn't know. He inhaled sharply, filling the otherwise soundless room. John responded in kind, grabbing Sherlock's arm to steady himself. Sherlock sucked, knowing that he'd leave a bruise this time and not caring.

"Oh- god," John groaned, other hand dropping down to the bed to support his body. Sherlock pulled off.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, lips spilling blood onto the mattress. He licked them absently.

"No, no, I'm fine," John said, shaking his head. "Go on, keep going." He adjusted his arm, which was trembling with the effort of keeping him upright.

"Your injured shoulder is afflicting you," Sherlock noted, nodding down. "Would you like to find a more suitable angle?"

"Er, yes," John said. The hand that had been gripping Sherlock's arm left, and the loss of contact distracted him for a second. "Would it be too weird if I was, um."

"Lying down?" Sherlock prompted. John nodded. "Not at all."

John eased himself onto the bed, then rolled onto his side, leaving the side of his neck exposed. Sherlock slid up behind him, into an almost-spooning position, and latched on again.

Eyes closed, he drank. Every so often he'd pause to inhale through his mouth, letting the soft wet sounds of what could have been mistaken for kissing permeate through the room. John's breathing was shallow, but not strained. His hands clenched the sheets, shaking. Sherlock, able to feel John's trembling without having to see it, opened one eye and slipped his hand over to cover John's. John grabbed it with both of his trembling hands and squeezed. The motion seemed so remarkably intimate that Sherlock had a momentary lapse in confidence that it was, in fact, accepable. His lips loosened over John's neck, the flow of blood to his mouth tapering off.

But John leaned back, insistant, and every doubt Sherlock had harbored vanished. He sucked with vigor, toungue savoring the rolls of taste that greeted him.

Bagged blood that was either delivered or given was nothing like this, Sherlock decided. His usual supply had been dry, thin, watery, with an aftertaste of chemicals. But this? This was life. He could feel John's pulse, giving an extra burst of blood every time John's heart convulsed. He could feel a sight hint of John's sweat, salty and rich.

It wasn't until John's leg rocked backward that Sherlock realized exactly how much John's blood was affecting him.

He quickly shifted his hips away, careful not to let John rub up against him. John whined low in his throat at the loss of contact, imitating the tug Sherlock felt in his gut as he did so.

Sherlock pulled off, swiping his tongue over the wound and opening his eyes to look at it.

"Why'd y'stop?" John mumbled.

"I've drunk enough now," Sherlock said, deciding not to mention the other reason.

"You're sure?" John asked, forcing one eye open and looking up at Sherlock. "Y'can take more, if... if you want it."

"I've satisfied myself quite enough." It was partly true.

"Mmmm, okay." John's eyes slipped shut again. He seemed content to lie in a light-headed haze on his bed until unconsciousness claimed him.

"I'll leave your payment on your table, by your laptop," Sherlock stated as he pulled on his coat, taking care to overpronounce the words so that John would be sure to hear them. He got a feeble groan in response, and decided that the message had been delivered.

Sherlock was turning to leave when John spoke up again. "Don' need that."

"What?"

"You don't need to pay me." With visible effort, John propped himself back up on the bed.

"Of course I do. I'm asking a service of you, as my donor."

"It was like that at the clinic," John said, eyes blearily looking across the room. "But it's not like that anymore. Not now."

"I'm still asking a great deal of you."

"But I'm getting as much out of this as you are."

Sherlock had nothing to say to that.

"I don'... feel right, taking your money. Y'should keep it."

"I can't ask that of you."

"And I can't ask this of you. Sh'lock, really." Even in his dizzied state, John clearly had a point. "Keep your money. I won' take it." With that, he slumped back onto his bed, unable to exert the effort of speaking any longer.

With one last look at the figure lying prone on the bed, Sherlock slipped out of the apartment.

oO0Oo

Every three weeks Sherlock would show up unannounced at John's door. John never questioned why he always knew the exact time that would be best, and Sherlock never admitted that he might have access to the city's collection of CCTV cameras.

John had been wary when Sherlock had turned up with two bags of groceries, claiming that "I need proper quality blood, John. You had low iron content last time," but he'd smoothed over the moment by preparing them both dinner ("Really, John, just because I don't enjoy garlic does not mean I'm allergic to it").

Three weeks after their dinner, Sherlock arrived at John's door yet again. He knocked twice and waited for John to open the door.

"Sherlock," John greeted. He wasn't cheerful, or happy. He seemed to have lost a few inches since the last time Sherlock had seen him. His eyes, once sparkling, had retreated back a little into his skull and sprouted enormous bags.

"You look terrible," Sherlock stated, bluntly. John gave a weak smile.

"I'm all right." He shrugged. "Come in."

"John, really. You don't look well." Sherlock made his way over to John's bed and sat, legs crossed. John followed him.

"Just caught a bug, I think. Had a fever for a few days. It'll be gone soon enough." John stretched his arms behind his back and yawned. "Right, should we get to it?"

"John, I believe you should visit a hospital," Sherlock said, making no move towards him. "You're ill."

"I'll be fine," John said.

"You won't be if I take blood from you right now." Sherlock shook his head. "I'll go to the clinic and buy some blood, it's fine."

"But you said-"

"Your health is more important." And when had that ever been true? When had Sherlock cared more about someone's health than his own gain? When did John Watson become important to him?

"Are- are you sure?"

"I'm positive." Sherlock nodded. "In the meantime, though, you can't stay here."

"What do you mean, I can't stay here? This is my flat." John frowned, confused.

"Live with me," Sherlock offered, shrugging. "It'll be easier. And you'll have a fully stocked fridge."

"I can't," John protested. "I... Sherlock, I wouldn't be able to pay rent."

"I have a special deal with the landlady. Together we'd both be able to afford it. You could get a job down at the hospital not too far from the place. It'd be perfect." Sherlock pulled out his mobile.

"You're really asking me to move in with you?" John asked, scratching at his head.

"I did just say that, yes."

"Oh."

"So?"

"You're serious?"

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, you're a vampire." John raised an eyebrow.

"And?"

"Humans don't... usually live with vampires," John explained, sounding a little uncomfortable.

"John, does anything about what we currently do suggest in any way that we are in a 'normal' arrangement?" Sherlock retorted.

John thought for a moment, and then a smile shone through the cracks that his energy had fallen down. "Good point."

o0O0o

"On your bed or on mine?"

"You'll want to sleep directly afterwords. I believe on your bed would be best."

"Right, okay. That works."

Sherlock, swaying slightly from the lack of blood running through his system, followed John up the stairs. John settled into his usual position on his side, and Sherlock curled up behind him. The two spots on his neck were prominent, as they'd been marked time and time again, but John had never given the indication that he'd minded, and so Sherlock had never worried.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked.

"Mmm."

Sherlock leaned over and dove his teeth into John's neck, beginning to feed. His tongue laved over the first wave of blood that met it, savoring every drop. He could feel Johns pulse in his mouth, slowing as Sherlock began to suck.

John reached up and turned off the bedside light, shrouding them in darkness. Sherlock didn't say a word- partly because he didn't want to stop feeding, partly because he was worried inputting a word into the shared silence would break whatever unspoken bond they'd created. He slid his tongue over the space between his fangs, a silent nod that he'd noticed John.

John hissed out a breath, leaning back into Sherlock, reaching for his hand. Sherlock threaded their fingers together, lips moving over his neck.

"Sher..." John groaned, and Sherlock resisted the urge to moan alongside him. John's blood was like ambrosia, stimulating his every nerve ending. John lurched backwards, bringing their bodies flush from bottom to top. This time, Sherlock was unable to surpress the growl that rose from the bottom of his throat.

"Sherlock-" John gasped, squeezing Sherlock's hand with his own. "Fuck-"

Sherlock rocked forward, needing more pressure, body keening and desperate for John's touch. John swayed alongside him.

Sherlock pulled off and licked the two bleeding spots. "John, oh, yes," he purred. John rolled over until he was lying on his back, neck still dripping, and tugged Sherlock forward, forcing their mouths together in a rush. It was hot and wet and he could still taste John's blood, mixed in turn with his saliva, and it was absolutely perfect.

"John, you," he panted, as they parted.

"Yes. You?"

"God, yes," Sherlock breathed, and kissed him again.

The thirst was simultaniously gone and more prominent than ever. His throat was no longer parched for the steady flow of an iron rich liquid, now it thirsted for John and John alone. John's blood, John's sweat, John's mouth. John's taste. Sherlock wanted to devour him piece by piece, and he was more than sure that John wanted the same.

"Th-that was a good idea of yours, to start doing this by ourselves," John said as he tugged his jumper over his shoulders.

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, fiddling with his shirt buttons. He was close to ignoring the price and brand of the damn thing and ripping it off.

"Yeah. I don't think they'd have let us do this in the hospital bed."

Sherlock laughed, and whatever leftover tension that had been left in the room disappeared. He bent down and captured John's lips again before pulling back and finishing with the buttons. The shirt joined John's jumper on the floor and he pressed his chest flush with John's. John's heartbeat, stuttering, racing.

"Sherlock, get up here and kiss me," John growled, shoving his hips up and grinding them against Sherlock's.

"Your mouth will be doing something else if you keep that up," Sherlock shot back, before licking a stripe up John's chest to his chin. He swallowed down John's moan with his mouth, bringing his hands up and fisting them in John's hair. John added a touch of theatricality, rolling his hips forward.

"Is that a challenge?" John teased.

"What do you think?"

"I think that you," John said, cupping his hand between Sherlock's legs, "want me to think it is."

"Then you'd better hurry up before I bleed you dry." Sherlock brushed his lips over John's before sliding them down over to his neck again and biting down. John gave a gasp, jolting uncontrollably.

John unbuttoned Sherlock's trousers and slid them down and off, throwing them to the side. He tugged the waistband of Sherlock's pants and snapped it back, giggling. Sherlock pulled off his neck.

"Are you fourteen?"

"Sorry, sorry. I couldn't resist." John giggled again.

"So do you want to..." Sherlock trailed off, uncertain. Vampires typically didn't associate in intimate ways with humans, and Sherlock had never found- or looked for- another vampire to suit this particular need.

"Whatever you want," John said, looking Sherlock in the eyes.

"I haven't... I mean, I don't-"

"Whatever you want," John repeated. "If it's just frotting, then that's fine."

An image burst into Sherlock's mind- John, naked, pressed against him, their bodies working together, John's blood flowing into his mouth- he realized his mouth was open when his throat became dry and the need to cough overrode his system.

"Yes, that... that would be good. Yes."

John smiled. "Good. Help me get these off, then."

John shucked his trousers off and tossed them onto the floor, leaving them both almost entirely exposed to one another. Sherlock took a moment to just look at John, take in his skin, his scar, every contour line of his body.

"You're gorgeous," John murmured. If Sherlock's cheeks had blood to color them, he would have blushed. "Can I keep you?"

"Only if I'm allowed to stake my claim on you as well."

John bent his neck and looked down at the still bleeding marks. "I think you've already managed that one, mate."

The moment Sherlock's eyes landed on the scar, he swooped down and latched his lips over it again, sucking. John groaned, taking one leg and wrapping it around Sherlock, pushing and pulling them together.

"Yes- keep- keep doing that."

Sherlock felt hands pulling off the last remaining layer separating them from each other, and then there was John up against him, John pressing impossibly closer to him, and everything was John. Every inhale brought John's scent to him, in him. Every swallow tasted of John's blood, every miniscule movement was against John's skin. Every sound was John's breath. And when he pulled off, giving his neck a lick and sitting up, all he could see was John, beneath him, pliant and willing. John, marked. John, his.

"Turn over," John said, sitting up a little. Sherlock dropped to his back and John crawled over him. "This'll be easier if I'm on top." Sherlock nodded. John bent his arms and lowered himself until their bodies were one and the same, and there was barely a distinction where one ended and the other began. "You're okay?" John asked.

"Yes." Sherlock nodded.

"Tell me if you want to stop."

"I won't."

"Sherlock."

"Fine, yes. If I do, I will tell you."

"Good." John bent down and kissed him briefly before pulling back and spitting into his hand. He reached down and took Sherlock's cock in his hand, slick with saliva. Sherlock slid his eyes shut, immersing himself in John, John's touch. John gave his cock a few slow strokes before curling his fingers over his own and pressing them together.

"John," Sherlock gasped, as John slid his hand over the both of them. "John, yes."

John slowly rocked his hips in time with his hand, adding another element to their movement. He bent over so his hand was sandwiched between their bodies, still sliding over their cocks, rubbing over the heads on every other stroke.

"Sherlock," he murmured. "Sherlock, drink."

"What?" Sherlock's mind was cluttered with John, cluttered with too many senses, too much information. "Drink?"

"My neck," John said. "Drink."

"I won't be able to- oh- stop," Sherlock panted.

"Yes, you will. You always do. I trust you."

That was all the incentive Sherlock needed. He thrust his teeth into John's neck and began sucking vigorously, adding a few occasional slurping noises to the room.

John's hand sped up, adding glorious friction beween their cocks. Sherlock nipped again at John's neck and he gasped, hand stilling for a moment before continuing to stroke. It was glorious, nothing like Sherlock had ever experienced. He gave John's neck a particularly hard suck before pulling away.

"John, if you don't slow down, I'm-"

"Yes."

"John?"

"I wan' you to," John said, voice hoarse. The blood loss was already making him light headed. Sherlock quickly decided that the best course of action was to make the urge to swallow every last drop of blood John was offering go away as soon as possible. He probably wouldn't be able to terminate it, on second thought, but he'd be able to lessen it to an extent at which he could feasibly ignore it. "Sherlock, please."

"Yes."

Sherlock closed his lips back over John's neck, sucking on his pulse point, feeling his blood pumping through the two holes he'd bitten. John gasped, shuddering beneath him.

Sherlock slipped a hand between them and batted John's hand away. He took both John's cock and his own in his hand and began stroking them both, taking care to match the exact tempo John had been using.

"Sherlock- oh, fuck." Sherlock could feel it, could feel John's pulse racing, careening faster and faster. He sucked eagerly, savoring every drop that landed on his tongue. John came with a shout, wrapping his legs around Sherlock, shuddering against him. Sherlock felt it, felt every heartbeat. And then John's hands were on his face, lifting him off of John's neck. He caught John's eyes for a split second before John pressed his nose against his other shoulder.

"Bite it," he whispered.

Sherlock bit.

Fangs piercing John's skin- this was his untouched skin, his perfect, smooth, unmarred skin- sent a rush of something down Sherlock's spine. His hips bucked up once, twice, and then he was coming against John, spilling out over him as John's blood spilled into his mouth.

He unfastened his lips from John's neck and gently licked the wound. John fell limp against the mattress.

"John."

John said nothing. His chest still rose and fell, but his eyes were closed and he seemed unresponsive.

"John, say something."

John gave no response. Sherlock wriggled his way out from under John and flipped the man onto his back, so his head was resting on the pillows. Still nothing. Sherlock huffed and slid down so his nose was resting over John's stomach, covered in their combined come. He licked over the length of John's cock, tougue collecting as much as it could.

John yelped, jolting awake.

"Sherl'k," John gasped. "What'r you-" he cut himself off with a groan as Sherlock licked his oversensitive cock again, tasting them together. "Fuck."

"Sleep, John," Sherlock murmured. "I'll be here when you wake up."

John mumbled something that sounded vaguely like Sherlock's name, shutting his eyes again, and Sherlock smiled.

Perfect.

o0O0o

A day and a half later, John had not woken. Sherlock had expected his reaction, after such a massive loss of blood. He was typing up a few last minute case notes on his laptop when he heard lethargic footsteps coming down the stairs.

"Morning," John mumbled.

"Evening," Sherlock corrected. "Don't be alarmed," he added, at John's sudden look of panic. "Perfectly expected. You, ah. Lost a significant amount of blood."

"Yeah, I remember that part." John gave him a nervous smile. "I wanted to talk about, um. It."

"The fact that we shared a sexual encounter, you mean?"

John closed his eyes for a second before opening them again. "Yes."

"What about it?"

"Is it just... the fact that drinking from me turns you on?"

"That is a significant factor. And I do believe it has the same effect on you. So I don't see the problem."

"Well, yeah. But is that all it is?" John stepped down the rest of the stairs and made his way into the kitchen.

"Ah, I see." Sherlock's fingers paused over the keys of his laptop and he shut the cover. "A romantic relationship, you mean?"

"I didn't say-"

"You didn't need to. No matter, you needn't worry either."

"Sherlock, what-"

"Humans aren't supposed to like it when vampires feed off of them, John," Sherlock explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. John seemed a little thrown by the comment.

"I... what?"

"Vampires and humans do not have symbiotic relationships," Sherlock continued. "Another word to describe a vampire would be a parasite. It feeds off of humans and offers nothing in return."

"But that doesn't make sense," John said, leaning on the counter.

"We share an emotional bond," Sherlock clarified.

"An emotional bond."

"Yes."

"And that's supposed to mean what?"

Sherlock sighed. "It means that I would still like to kiss you when we're not together in a bed or behind closed doors. There is more to our relationship than a purely sexual nature."

"There is?" John blinked. "I mean, there is. Yeah."

"If you do not oppose such an idea, of course," Sherlock amended, hastily.

"I don't oppose it," John said, smiling.

"Good. Nor do I."

John walked over and took his hand. Their fingers entertwined.

"Good."


End file.
